//I have a gift for you guys!! Sherlock's POV!!//
//Sherlock's POV//
John's head falls against the wall and a soft snoring sound starts to vibrate out of his chest. His sleeve is still up, the needle from the medicine to put him out still in his arm. I carefully extract it and brush my thumb along each of the scars on his forearm. Not from self harm, but from war.
I pull on his sleeve, loosening it up and pulling it over his arm. I can't continue to deal with that. The thought of him hurt at all carves at my insides. "Oh, John. How much of this is my own fault?" The words tumble out of my mouth in a whisper. All of it... Maybe I should leave. He seems– no. That's exactly the problem. He needs me here or things like this'll happen, just worse.
Like I've said, we're dangerous. Together we cause a chemical reaction. I do like chemistry, but, nine times out of ten, the experiment fails. John says he's not gay. Maybe he's not. Maybe I'm not. We're going to be used against each other. That's a no-brainer. One of us is going to die, and this time I don't know if the Lazarus code will work. I'm not thinking it will. It's almost certainly going to be John. He can't leave. I need him here.
What if he had jumped while I was 'dead'?
Mycroft wouldn't have told me. Wouldn't have told me why, anyway. He would say he...got in an accident or...moved away.
If John died I couldn't deal with it.
It would be a modern Romeo and Juliet story.
I need to call Mycroft. I'm becoming too full of emotion. My legs feel numb as I back away from an unconscious John. The phone is smooth in my fingers, the scratches on the back barely registering. I sit down on the couch never taking my eyes off of John. The ringing continues until his voicemail eventually picks up.
"If you're anyone to do with the British government, go ahead and leave a message. If you're Sherlock, don't call again. You know I rarely use this phone." It beeps and the message ends. I've never gotten his voicemail before. It is late...
I clear my throat. "Call back at once." I pause with a sigh. "Please?" I add as an afterthought. Short and brief. I set the phone on the couch next to me. A weird thought invades my mind- I wonder why I never get texts from Irene anymore... Oh yes, she's supposed to be 'dead.' John told me she was in America. A pure lie. He didn't want me to know she was dead. Watching out for me even when we weren't together...
Of course, I'm the only one who knows she's not.
She doesn't exactly like John. We've talked about it before. He doesn't really like her either. No idea why.
The phone begins to vibrate and I snatch it up off the couch, answering it before it gets the chance to start vibrating again. "Hello, brother."
His voice is a tired panic. "Sherlock, what is wrong? Don't tell me you need another favor."
I laugh sadly. "Why must something be wrong Mycroft? Why do you always think I need a favor? Can't I just call you as your brother? Your blood?" My voice cracks on the word brother, and I sniffle after finishing my questions.
He sighs. "Sherlock, you sound like you're in pain. I can send a car if you need it. Where are you?"
I bring my legs up to my chest in the fetal position from instinct. "I'm at home Mycroft. I have a problem, though." My words are nearly a whisper as I complain to him.
The sounds of sheets shifting can be heard across the phone, and after, the small thud of something on wood. He's leaning against his headboard. When he speaks, it's incredibly annoyed. "And? If it's something with your relationship, you know I'm not the person to-"
"Emotion Mycroft. I can feel it." My voice is coming out quieter than a whisper. "I haven't cried in years Mycroft...I hate it. It's...it's weakness." Tears stream down my cheeks. My face hurts where they fall, not used to the amount of salt.
Mycroft sighs heavily on the other side of the line. "Never thought it'd be me you'd come to when this happened." His voice isn't as annoyed when he starts up again. "Sherlock, we've always known this would happen. I mean, mum and dad and I. Just breathe Sherlock."
I cover my mouth with my hand. I am crying. Actual tears. To Mycroft. The world must be crashing down. A sob escapes my throat. "Mycroft, am I dying? I must be."
He laughs. "No, brother. It's only human emotion. You'll get used to it. Crying is done a lot. Not by me, of course. You've always been the more...outgoing of the two of us. You had to develop emotion eventually."
I hurt. Somewhere in my chest hurts. Why does this hurt so much? "What did John do to me? My chest hurts so much..."
He sighs once again, starting to sound exasperated. "John merely introduced you to this. And that thing in your chest, Sherlock is a heart. You do have one, as stubborn as you may be to realizing it. And right now yours is growing like the Grinch. I'm going to hang up now, I don't like these kinds of conversations, you know. Goodbye Sherlock."
I close my eyes. "Bye Mike." I hang up the phone and throw it on a cushion to my right. I called him Mike... I'm such a god damn idiot. What the hell is going on with me?
I slowly slide down to where I'm lying on my side, legs curled up to my chest. "I'm melting. I'm Jack Frost and my insides are melting. I have a heart and it's starting to work, and I can't tell if I love it or hate it." I continue to repeat these words in my head to calm me. They're facts. I can always hold on to facts. My eyelids slowly start to droop and my breathing starts to slow.
Even as I fall asleep, tears still run down the left side of my face.
***
I'm not awoken by John. No, he lets me 'sleep in'. I don't think I've ever done that before. When I do wake up, the shades are all pulled tight over the windows and no lights are on. It's fairly dark. John must not be having a good morning. Headache from all the stuff he was given last night, no doubt. Well, actually, he may have done it for me. So I don't wake.
I sit up and swing my legs off the couch, wiggling my socked toes. It's very calm in here. Stuffed. I like it. "John!" I whisper/yell. I have no idea where he is. I push myself up off the sofa and wobble a bit before the dizziness goes away and I regain my balance.
I walk down the hallway with heavy steps. Not stomping, just tired ones. I push open the door to my bedroom slowly, peeking around the edge.
John lies sound asleep under the covers.
I step inside the room and click the door shut behind me. This room is pitch black too. The clock on the end-table screams 9:56 in its big red numbers. I'm most definitely going back to bed. Today will be a late one. I could spend the whole day home with my John.
Unless he hates me.
I do hope he doesn't. But he will blame me. That much is certain. Most people do.
As sudden as a light switch being flicked, my mind goes dark. Not blank, but dark.
These things happen sometimes. At least once a week. I've always been careful to hide the attacks from John, but it seems too late now. Nearly collapsing, I sit on the edge of the bed and my fingers massage my temples. Words swirl. Phrases bounce around in my head. Sometimes it's Moriarty, sometimes Redbeard, sometimes my dad's punishments. Sometimes Donovan's antics... It all really just depends.
I'm going to be sick.
No, I always think that. Never happens. Quotes from the past haunt me and depress me even further. I have to wait it out like always. It feels like my head is so full of the black and swirling metaphorical liquid. It's pouring out my ears, leaking from the corners of my mouth, out of my nostrils and over my lips, scalding everywhere the touch. It burns... My body feels like it's full of fire. Words people've said torture me-
"You look sad when you think he can't see you..."
They morph, transform, and melt into different nightmares that I only have while awake.
"Daddy's had enough now!"
Moriarty, then. I'd rather he not be the subject of today's shadows. But of course, as soon as the thought's introduced, my head is flooded with a tsunami of his words. The sentences smear and bleed together like a water painting as my hands press to the sides of my head.
"I. O. U." "That's what people do!" "I owe you a fall..." "Every fairy-tail has a good old-fashioned villain." "Oh, just kill yourself." "You're....me!" "You're ordinary, Sherlock." "People do get so sentimental about their pets."
Deductions pound on the edges of my head (or maybe it's my heart) to the point where it's hard to see or hear anything whatsoever. Almost like a shroud has enveloped my mind. Voices begin to whisper things about me.
"Freak." "One day we'll be standing over a body, and Sherlock'll be the one who put it there." "Kind of a weirdo, looks like the vigilante type." "Really unbelievable you could find those kids from just a footprint. Really. Unbelievable."
Overwhelming. It's hard to form any clear thoughts. Until–
A worried hand lightly caresses the small of my back and the clouds part...
John.